


In For Greenberg

by KaseyBeth



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Greenberg is Coach's son, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of Suicide, Posted on ff.net, Sam Greenberg, Swearing, odd man out
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 19:38:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12019593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KaseyBeth/pseuds/KaseyBeth
Summary: He didn't mind his life... really. His stepfather was a jerk, his mother was always MIA, and his dad was well... a character to say the least. Lacrosse sucked, Jackson sucked, high school sucked, and being that one weird kid sucked. But to tell you the truth, it could be a lot worse. Or maybe it couldn't...





	1. 99 Problems, and Greenberg Ain't One...

Purple.

He fucking hated the color purple. An ugly combination of red and blue intertwined together producing a distasteful and mind-numbingly awful color. Everything around him was purple. From the clock on the wall, to the secretary’s shirt, to the plastic chair he sat on, drenched impeccably with this color. He pulled his hoodie farther over his head hoping that the black eye wasn’t as visible as it felt. His blue sneakers slide across the floor as he stretched his legs, trying to find a more comfortable position for his freakishly tall body. He heard a scoff when his foot collided with the individual sitting across from him and he looked up to see his dim-witted opponent. He glared at him. The kid sat across from him wearing a smirk that made mother’s cry, girls swoon and babies trust him. His smirk turned into a perfect smile that revealed his perfect white teeth accompanied by perfect dimples; blood highlighted his impeccably perfect blond hair while his perfect blue eyes shone murderously with blood boiling glee. He fucking hated this kid. He hated him more than anything in the world. He hated Jackson Whittemore.

Ever since Scott took over the team as team co-captain, Jackson had become a royal pain in his ass. Moody, arrogant, and irritable, like a girl on her period. He could hear yelling coming from the principal’s office and could only imagine what distasteful words were being said. The secretary stopped eating her apple to glimpse towards the door then over at the boys halfheartedly. He glanced back down at his busted knuckles and started pulling the glass that had embedded itself beneath his skin. He watched as blood bubbled to the surface as its predecessor left his knuckles sharply. Jackson cleared his throat, and he looked up to see he had leaned forward. A sly smile spread across his face as if he had thought of something amusing. _Doubtful._

“Hey asswipe, they’re going to kick you off the team again,” Jackson leaned back in his chair slowly and crossed his arms, “it’s not like we really need you anyway. Hell, even Stilinski is a better player than you.” He could feel a sarcastic comment climbing up his throat and clenched his jaw shut. The last thing he needed was another fight; another fight to kick him out of yet another school. He heard a loud slam and flinched slightly as the door swung open.

Jackson’s parents stepped through seething in calm and collected personas; each sporting some type of fancy, finely pressed suit. They glared at him as they walked towards Jackson.

“Jackson, sweetheart, are you okay?” his mother asked in a tone that dripped with sweet apprehension. Jackson put his hand towards his head gently, looking up at his mother, “Yes, I’m fine. I just don’t understand why this happened.” Jackson said glancing back at him with a devilish smile. He could feel his blood begin to boil and wondered what Jackson would do if he punched him again, right there with his parents watching. “Come now sweetheart, let’s get you checked out and see if this delinquent did any permanent damage.” She placed a hand gently on Jackson’s shoulder as he stood and led him out the door. Jackson nodded gently, and portrayed the same look a wounded puppy gave its master before stealing a glance back at the kid, smirking.

Coach Finstock came barreling through the door, his whistle slightly ajar around his neck and his hair a wild chaotic mess. He turned around to face the principal and pointed his finger accusingly as if to say something. The principal put his hand up, “I’m sorry Bobby; there is nothing I can do. He’s off the team for a few weeks, either that or Mr. Whittemore can press charges. It’s your choice.” Coach made a noise that resembled a man trying to breathe, and turned back towards the kid.

“Come on Greenberg!” he growled grabbing the kid’s sweatshirt and dragging him along with him. He yanked his jacket away from the Coach. He wasn’t a baby, he didn’t need to be led or watched or… rescued. The Coach stopped in mid-track and turned towards him, giving him a look that would kill, “Listen here,” he said through clenched teeth, “I just saved your ass. They wanted to press charges all because you decided to start a fight with Jackson. If you don’t come with me, you can prance yourself back into that office and deal with him.” he said pointing an angry finger towards the office door.

Greenberg swallowed, “Coach, I-“

“Don’t you dare Greenberg. You’re in enough trouble as it is, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll shut your trap!” He turned back towards the hall and began walking at murderously swift pace. Greenberg swallowed again, feeling anger and betrayal rising towards the surface. If only you knew what the fight was about, he thought. He clenched his fists tightly, biting back the words that he wanted so desperately to say. He looked down at his ratty sneakers and began following the Coach towards the locker room. At least he wouldn’t have to deal with his stepfather yet. Not until he left school. Not until he stepped into that house. His breathing hitched slightly as his mind raced of thoughts of what he would have to face when he went home. He didn’t want to go home. He didn’t want to go back there. He didn’t want to be with him.

He stumbled slightly, before catching his balance against a locker, as he realized he had stepped on one of his laces. _Stupid shoes, always coming undone._ The Coach turned around slightly, glancing down at Greenberg’s worn out shoes then back towards the hall, “You’re so clumsy, just like your old man.” He grunted.

Greenberg sighed and looked up at the ceiling, counting the tiles as he walked past, and drowning out the Coach’s lecture. He wasn’t entirely sure what the Coach was saying, but it involved lots of manual labor, suicide runs and afterschool detainment. Great, just what he wanted. He looked back down at his knuckles, flexing them slightly, wondering if there was any more glass left under his skin. _Stupid breakable beakers. Stupid science experiment. Stupid Professor Harris. Stupid fucking Jackson Whittemore._

He rounded the corner and opened the door towards the locker room, stepping into the Coach’s office. It was a closet of a room to say the least. The most interesting thing about it was the blue trimming around the windows and walls, which was supposed to make it look bigger. Pictures and old memorabilia decorated the walls, various papers scattered the desk and most of the floor, and duct tape was embedded on the back of his office chair in a previously horrendous chance to fix it. Coach stood there, behind his desk, hands on the back of his head, staring at him intently. He wasn’t talking; hell, he didn’t even look like he was breathing. He took a long exasperated breath and opened his mouth to speak.

“Coach, I-” Greenberg started again. He wanted to reassure him it wasn’t his fault. He wanted to reassure him that it was a big misunderstanding. He wanted to reassure him he wasn’t a fuckup. He wasn’t what everyone believed him to be. He was a good kid. He was a good kid with dumb luck.

He heard a knock at the door and turned around to see Scott and Stiles idling in the doorway. They glanced at the Coach and then back at Greenberg. “Coach, uh, we can come back later.” Stiles said drawing out the “later”. _God, he was an awkward guy sometimes._

“No, no, I’m almost done here. Go do whatever it is I asked you to do.” Coach responded motioning for Scott and Stiles to leave the room. He straightened his whistle against his shirt and pressed his fingers against the paper covered desk.

“Um… you asked us to meet with you… about my name… on the back of my jersey... It says Balinski… not Stilinski.” Stiles replied slowly, eyeing the Coach, waiting for an inkling of realization to cross over his face. _Man, this was painfully awkward to watch._

The Coach stared at them with a deadpan expression, “Your name is Stilinski. Really? Since when?”

Stiles turned towards Scott as if asking him for help, “Uh… since… birth.”

Coach stood there for a second then clicked his tongue gently before saying, “huh.” He crossed his arms and tilted his head as if trying to waver whether Stiles was telling the truth.

The awkward tension began to grow in the room and Greenberg wished that Scott and Stiles would disappear, or he would. He stood there playing with the loose thread at the bottom of his jacket before shoving his hands in his pocket and turning to leave. He had made it to the door before Coach cleared his throat, “Not you, Greenberg, stay. We’re not finished here. McCall, Balins- um, Stilinski, whatever the hell your name is, wait in the locker room. Stiles, are you sure your name isn’t Balinski?”

Stiles stared at him, throwing his hands up in the air slightly, before heading towards the locker room. Greenberg turned back towards the Coach and swallowed loudly. He braced himself for the lecture to start.

“Greenberg, what the hell?” the Coach yelled, “I mean come on man; you can’t go around picking fights with whoever you want.”

Greenberg clenched his jaw, “I’m not-”

“This is the third time this month! The next one will get you expelled! Is that what you want? You wanna get kicked out of another school? What the hell? You’re about this close to getting kicked off the team…”

He felt his blood boiling again. He didn’t want to get kicked off. He couldn’t get kicked off. This was all he had. It was the only thing that his father was proud of. It was the only thing his father ever talked about. Or cared about… he felt his fist clench again and wondered slightly if Jackson would leave him the hell alone. Why didn’t he see? Why didn’t anyone see? I mean, Jackson wasn’t exactly anonymous about it, he wasn’t that smart. He stood there, feeling his black eye pulsing and wondered if the Coach had even noticed, or if he ever would.

“…I mean seriously, what the hell! All for some dumb girl! You know I have to call your mother, right? How do you think she is going to react? I, your Coach, have to get yelled at by your mother, all for something you fucked up...”

 _Yeah, if you can find her…_ He added inwardly. He hadn’t seen his mother in weeks. Last time he saw her, she was spewing something about a business trip to Barcelona or somewhere. God only knows where she is now.

“…and to think, we we’re this freaking close to the semi-finals. Now I have to put Balinski in as your replacement. And we’re going to lose…”

Greenberg smirked slightly as Stiles yelled “hey, I can hear you!” from the locker room.

“God Sam, what the fuck!”

He froze. Everything in his body stopped and he found he couldn’t blink, he couldn’t think and he couldn’t breathe. Every bone in his body was chilled and his blood turned into a slushy-like mixture as his name was repeated. No one called him Sam, ever. Greenberg looked back at the Coach before storming out the door.

“Hey!” Coach yelled loudly. You could hear his footsteps growing heavy as he walked out of his office. Greenberg felt a grip on his shoulder as Coach spun him around to face him. His hood flew off his head and for a second, a look of concern flashed across the Coach’s face before clouding over with anger. Greenberg pushed away from him and stumbled gently into Scott, before turning to leave.

“Samuel Aaron Greenberg, get back here!”

Greenberg whipped around, eyes shining bright with rage, “Don’t you call me that! Don’t you ever fucking call me that!” he yelled loudly. He could feel anger ripping through his body, clawing its way towards the top, begging and burning to be released. “You always do this!” He screamed, pushing the Coach bitterly into a locker. “You always fucking do this. It’s always my fault. It’s always my fucking fault. And now, because you missed out, you take it upon yourself to make up for lost time? I don’t need you! I never fucking needed you!”

The Coach looked stunned for a second. He glanced over at Scott and Stiles who stood there, trying their best to look like they couldn’t hear anything. “Greenberg, I-”

“No! Don’t even bother. Look, you can stop trying to be my father again because you never were.” He shouted, feeling his throat beginning to close and his eyes beginning to burn. He turned around and pulled his hoodie over his head and walked out the door, slamming it behind him.

When he was in the hall he sucked in a shallow breath. He felt lightheaded and swallowed harshly, willing himself to leave. He walked gently to the stairs feeling the world washing over him as he realized what he had just said. He paused. He felt sick. His hands were shaking and his face burning with hatred, regret, and disappointment. He took another deep breath and reached into his pocket, pulling out his army green headphones, plugging them into his iPod and pushing play. Asking Alexandria began to blare into his ears and he stood there for a second reciting the song lyrics over on his head; calming himself down. He pushed the doors opened and was immediately basked in the uncomfortable warmth of the August sun.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>

He stood in front of the house, staring at it. Like any other two-story house in his neighborhood, it lacked any special character that made it different from the rest. It stood, tanned and boring, lined with freshly trimmed bushes and iron gated fences. To many, like Danny, it was extravagantly breathtaking, but to him, it was hell. He prayed that somehow his mom’s finances would plummet and they would lose all their money, because maybe then she would remember how to be a mother again. Maybe then, she would be happy.

He heard a clap of thunder overhead and watched as the clouds began to form. A thunderstorm was in the midst… _how fitting._ He looked over to his right to see Lydia getting out of her car, pulling out her bright pink purse of the day. She stopped, looked over at him, flipped her hair and continued into her house. _Figures, princesses don’t pay attention to peasants, even rich peasants._ He looked back down at his iPod realizing it had begun to play some type of Beethoven, and cranked the volume on high. He opened the gate gently and began to make his way towards the house.

His hand hovered over the doorknob as he realized he might not be home. His car wasn’t in the driveway, and the windows weren’t opened, which was usually a tale-tell sign he was here. A feeling of relief washed over him as he opened the door and stepped through. He could heard music being played in the kitchen and assumed the housekeeper, Gloria, was making something exotic and weird, but nonetheless good. He flicked his shoes off gently, hoping he wasn’t tracking mud, and made his way into the kitchen. The hall was narrow and long, decorated with various books, vases and expensive looking portraits depicting them as the happy family they were supposed to be. _Fucking bullshit._

“Gloria, God, you will not-” He stopped when he opened the kitchen door to see him standing there. “Why hello son, glad you’re home.” His stepdad answered gently, biting into an apple.

Greenberg flinched slightly, “Hello Brett.”

Brett was a tall, stocky built man with the face of a snake, and the personality of a weasel. He might have been attractive once, but he no longer was now… or at least to Greenberg. His blond hair was always slicked back too tight and his green eyes always looked like they were hiding something. He was a charmer to most, and a fan of the ladies, parties, and alcohol. Whenever Greenberg’s mother decided to make an appearance, Brett would dote on her hand and foot, acting like the perfect husband, but when she was away… when she was away, his personality shifted revealing his true nature, and he was the devil.

Brett set his apple down on the counter lightly and sighed, “I will never understand why you don’t just call me dad.” He said, his tone dripping sarcastically on the last word.

“Because you’re not my dad.” Greenberg said distastefully.

“Ah, been talking to your old man again? Tell me, how is that pathetic loser of a Coach anyway?” Brett looked up, eyes meeting Greenberg’s, while a small smile toyed on his lips.

Greenberg bit back a response. _Nothing good will come of this,_ he thought. He felt his feet moving slightly backward, begging for him to walk away, yearning for him to leave. He bit his bottom lip, trying his best to detain his remark, “He might be a loser but at least he isn’t a doctor who has seen one too many malpractice lawsuits.”

Brett pressed his hands gently against the counter. A small chuckle escaped his mouth and he put his finger to his chin rubbing the uneven stubble, “Good, that’s a good one.” He looked up again at Greenberg, and Greenberg could feel his breath hitching and his heart racing. He toyed with the loose thread on the bottom of his jacket, waiting. Brett brushed the crumbs gently off the counter, wiping away any dust that might be clinging to it. Tense silence was beginning to fill the air, except the soft chuckling coming from his stepfather. And then it happened.

Brett moved quickly around the counter as Greenberg raced out of the room. He swung the kitchen door backwards hoping it would hit Brett in the face, and slow him down. He ran into the hallway, sliding on the slick floor, wanting to get to the gate fast enough before Brett caught him. He pushed a vase down in the hall, and threw some old books on the ground, trying his best to create obstacles, trying his best to stop him. Greenberg was a fast runner, but so was Brett. “Get back here you stupid little shit! I should teach you a lesson!” He could hear Brett yelling after him and glass crunching as feet collided with the shattered vase.

He reached the door, yanking it open and stumbling slightly down the porch steps as he tripped over his ratty torn shoes. Stupid shoes, he thought, always getting in the fucking way! He ran to the edge of the gate, ripped it open and tried his best to open it all the way, but it was caught on his stupid jacket. He felt a sharp tug on his shoulder and found himself being slammed on the ground. His vision faded for a second and ringing echoed loudly in his ears as multiple Brett’s appeared in front of him. Brett’s face was contorted in a mask of deadly rage, and Greenberg braced himself as the first blow hit. He yelped loudly, caught off guard with how strong Brett was, even though he had been through this countless times. He felt another blow to his ribs and turned slightly, gasping for the air that retreated from his lungs. He coughed harshly tasting bittersweet metal in his mouth. His vision swayed again as something hard collided with his face. He blacked out.

A few minutes later he found himself staring disoriented across the street. A pretty young woman clad in a bright floral dress was pushing a bright blue stroller down the sidewalk slowly. Greenberg screamed again and she paused slightly, looking up as the wind blew her long brown hair in different directions. She pulled the hood gently over the stroller as the baby began to cry, wanting to see his mother, wanting to know she was there. Greenberg cried out in pain as Brett’s fist collided with his chest. And then, it stopped.

He looked painfully up at Brett to see him standing over him, wiping his knuckles on his purple button down shirt, “There, that’ll teach you, you pathetic little wimp.” he spat before retreating back into the house. Greenberg could hear the door slamming behind him and felt something wet beginning to coat his body. Rain, it was raining. He let the water wash over him, hoping it would take away the blood, hoping it would take away the pain. He glanced back over to the young mother, who had stopped to open her umbrella. She gazed apologetically towards the gate where he was, then continued with her journey.

He laid there on his back, staring up at the gray sky; letting the water soak into his jeans, jacket, and wash over his face. He coughed and inhaled harshly, trying his best to steady his breathing as his lungs finally accepted the watery wet air that surrounded him. He put his hand to his face, feeling something dripping from his nose, something other than water. He pulled back his hand, and squinted trying to clear his vision… blood. Of course it would be blood, because Brett never left until there was blood. He turned his body slightly, meshing his hands against the gritty unforgiving dirt and forced himself up. Every bone in his body protested as his world suddenly became upright. He stood gently, steadying himself on the gate and glanced down at where he had been. The stone pathway was slightly broken from the force and blood spots splattered the ground. Luckily the rain would wash it away. Something always washed it away.

He let his hand fall to his side as he trudged towards the house and pushed the door gently open. He could hear the TV blaring and Brett’s annoyingly barbaric laughter echoing throughout the house. Broken glass and busted books still coated the hallway dangerously. _I’ll clean it up later,_ he thought. He pushed the door closed, leaving his fist there for a second and glanced back down at his shoes. The pathetic blue stood out against the pale white floor menacingly. He eyed them offensively, knowing they were always the reason he was in trouble. _Stupid pathetic shoes,_ he thought as he walked slowly upstairs towards his room.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>

He stood there, underneath the hot, steaming water. Letting it run over his aching body; down his chest and past his bruises. He liked the water. He liked showers. It was the one thing he could look forward to at the end of the day. The one thing he knew he could always rely on to take the days stress away; the secrets; the lies; the pain; the memories. If he could, he would stay here all day and night until he shriveled into a small wrinkled ball of nothing; until there was nothing left of him. He took a deep breath, allowing the steam to relax his body and mind. He gradually ran a hand over the knob on the shower, dreading the idea of getting out. He turned the knob slowly, allowing the water to turn freezing cold, before finally shutting it off. He stepped out onto the light purple rug his mother had sought to pick out for his bathroom on one of her hella-expensive shopping sprees, and glanced at his reflection in the mirror.

His black eye had spread to his cheekbone thanks to Brett, and a nasty cut tore through his top lip crudely. The skin on the bridge of his nose was split slightly and he touched it gently, wondering if it was broken again. Bruises scattered his ribs and side, along with a few older predecessors that refused to go away until they had turned an ugly greenish blue color. He touched them faintly, feeling for anything abnormal, feeling for any broken bones. He put his hands to the back of his neck, rubbing it harshly, feeling a headache beginning to surface. Great, just what he needed. He rubbed the back of his shoulders hoping to relieve some of the tension and pressure. His right hand slid over the tattooed quote etched into his right shoulder blade, and he pressed his fingers against the words, willing them to feel each letter. _A pack always sticks together._ This was something his father use to tell him when he was younger… and for some reason it stuck with him. He cleared his throat.

He wiped away some of the condensation that had begun to build up on the mirror. He was an average looking kid to say the least. He was neither extraordinarily attractive, nor compulsively unattractive. He was tall, almost taller than his father and when he eventually stopped growing, he would probably be taller. He had messy black hair like him too; hell, his face even looked strikingly identical to his father’s- all except for the eyes and freckles. He had his mother’s piercing green eyes; ones that you would think would stand out in a crowded room. A few freckles brushed across his face peacefully, and out of place. He always hated them because it made him look younger than he really was.

He was weird, quirky and all-in-all a clumsy sarcastic trouble maker. He was always in trouble, always getting yelled at, and always tripping into things or over things. In school, he had two moods, quiet kid in the back of the classroom or loud asinine kid who spewed whatever sarcastic word-vomit projected from his mouth. There was no in-between. He went unnoticed most of the time, and he didn’t have many friends. Then again, it’s kind of hard to make friends when you’re deemed the school prankster, and when you are ousted by your father in front of the whole lacrosse team/ 5th period economics class.

He shook his head slightly, letting his damp messy black hair shield his face. He didn’t mind being viewed as the Coach’s “least” favorite student, nor did he mind being regarded as that one weird kid everyone knew but no one talked to- he could handle it. He could always handle it. Besides, it was better this way. He didn’t want anyone to know that Coach Finstock was his father, and he didn’t really want to be popular. He slid under the radar at school and he liked it. No one bugged him, except for Jackson; no one tormented him, except for Jackson; and no one irritated him, except for Jackson. And when you come home to a house occupied with Brett, going unnoticed at school was a gift sent from God.


	2. Greenberg Through the Looking Glass

_He sat there, tapping his pen loudly against the wooden frame of his desk. It was raining outside and the wind was crashing thunderously against the windows, trying desperately to get in. The lights flickered overhead and he stopped tapping for a second to glance at the ceiling. A chill ran down his spine and he shivered slightly. Damn, it was cold in here. Behind him he could hear Scott and Stiles discussing their evening plans involving Derek Hale. What a joy their lives must be. He peered out the corner of his eye to his left to see Jackson. Jackson was sitting perpendicular to him, his legs blocking the middle of the aisle. He could feel Jackson staring at him, and every minute that ticked by agitated him to no end. Stop looking at me; stop looking at me; STOP LOOKING AT ME._

_The lights flickered again and Coach stopped his seemingly boring lecture to make some asinine comment about the electricity bill. Greenberg smirked slightly, and continued his tapping. The ink was beginning to come out of the pen and he could feel the wet sticky blue liquid sprinkling his hand. Lightning struck outside the window, someone screamed, and then the lights went out. One of the windows shattered and rain filled the tiny room. He could hear movement and screams but he sat there, unable to move. He felt something sharp collide with his hands, and dropped his pen stiffly. His hands hurt, no they burned; they burned like hell. OH GOD, THEY BURNED SO FUCKING MUCH. It felt like the skin was being peeled back from his hands piece by piece. Tiny daggers being stabbed into them over and over again then pushed further into his flesh until they pierced the other side. He felt something crawling over his hands and chest, like hundreds of tiny spiders he couldn’t see, and biting down, burying themselves beneath the broken flesh. JESUS MOTHERFU-_

_He wanted to scream, but couldn’t. He wanted to move, but couldn’t. Out of all the chaos that was winding around him, he was the one unable to do anything. He was the one unable to move. He sat still, focusing on his breathing and trying his best to keep it calm, trying his best to focus on something else. To focus on something other than his hands. He heard more glass shattering and people scrambling, doors being slammed, and desks being pushed. He sucked in a breath as something sharp slid up his back and wrapped tightly around his throat. All the oxygen that his lungs could manage was suddenly pushed from his chest, leaving him with nothing. He couldn’t breathe; his hands were burning and he couldn’t breathe! He felt something sharp pierce his shoulder- no SOMETHING WAS BITING INTO HIS FUCKING SHOULDER! He felt the thing rip through his shirt and tear into flesh. Jaws clenched down hard until Greenberg was sure the thing had reached bone. His eyes burned from the pain, and he found he was suffocating again not only from the lack of oxygen but from the pain. White noise had begun to fill the room until the only thing he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Something wet was coursing its way down his shoulder and through the pitch black darkness he assumed it was blood. Thump. T h u m p ._

_“Why’d you do it?” someone whispered. He felt something poke his side and the thing that had been feeding on his shoulder released its grip hastily. Air filled his deprived lungs and through excavated gasps he felt movement beside him. He saw two perfectly red eyes glowing in the darkness. He felt a chill run down his spine again, and tried moving out of his chair but his laces were a tangled mess. He moved slightly only to fall face first on the floor. Stupid fucking shoes. “Why’d you do it you freak!” He heard somebody yell. The thing that had once been paired to his side was gone and so were the eyes. He let out another sigh. There was no way in hell he was going crazy. Greenberg steadied himself then glanced up trying to peer through the rainy black abyss, trying to find the voice as well as his own._

_“Why did you do it!” Someone else yelled. Something sliced through his back and pain once again shot through his hands, shoulder, and side. The lights flickered then popped, turning back on to reveal a shambolically bright room. Papers and desks were everywhere; the classroom, although puddles littered the floor, looked dry. A few of the students had managed to leave the room while others stood humbly in the corner. He looked at his shoulder to see blood soaking his right arm. Greenberg looked down to see he was standing in a muddy puddle of blood and water. He cleared his throat finally able to find the voice he had seemingly lost moments ago, and looked back up… everyone was staring at him. Stiles and Scott were portraying the same look of insanity and disbelief, and Jackson was sitting on one of the overturned desks, smirking. Pain shot through his hands again and he looked down to see his hands were covered in blood. Glass broken into tiny pieces was embedded in his hands, in the crevices and sticking out murderously through the palms. Had a window busted near him?_

_Blood dripped from his hands and landed in the puddle on the ground._

_“Greenberg, why did you do it?” Someone asked loudly. Coach? He turned to his right to see the Coach lying on the ground, blood covering his body. Glass was all around him and some shards were sticking out of the exposed flesh, morphing it into an ugly mess. Coach Finstock’s face was a distorted mess of bruises and cuts. His eyes were open; and he wasn’t breathing. Greenberg’s breathing hitched. He gulped loudly, trying to breathe but it seemed like all the oxygen had been pulled out of the room. He felt like he was being suffocated again. “I-I” He started, he couldn’t move, he couldn’t breathe. Did he do this? Was the Coach dead? Was his-_

_He heard laughing echo throughout the room and tore his eyes away from the Coach to see Brett sitting in one of the seats beside him. The room seemed to freeze. The temperature dropped to negative zero and the students that had remained in the brightly lit room vanished. The lights flickered again as Brett chuckled. His freshly pressed suit stood out murderously in the shattered classroom. His posture and composer were impeccable, and his voice even more so. What was he doing here? Brett cleared his throat loudly and straightened the light purple tie around his neck, “See son, you’re more like me than you’re willing to admit.”_

_Greenberg looked down at his hands again and watched as the blood ran between the tiny pieces of glass and dripped neatly on the ground. “Greenberg.” He wasn’t Brett’s son. His body was beginning to tremble, his vision beginning to fade. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think… or maybe he was thinking too much. Maybe his brain was overthinking, spewing out questions that he didn’t have the answers to. Why was Brett here? What was that thing that had bitten him? Was this his fault? Was the Coach dead? Was his-_

_“Greenberg.” He turned disoriented, feeling his world beginning to slip away. His throat was closing and he could feel his eyes beginning to burn from tears. He was turning into Brett. He was a monster. He had killed his-_

_“What?” he said weakly._

_“WAKE THE HELL UP!”_

Greenberg jerked awake, falling from his chair and taking several papers and pens down with him in the process. Sweat clung to his shirt and face, and he found he was gasping for air. Was he dreaming? Where was he? The last thing he remembered was Brett. How did he get here? Did he teleport? He felt pain course itself through his hands and he looked down seeing blood pooling in his palms. He sucked in a breath, _it was real… it was real… Coach!_ He looked around; everyone was staring at him… including the Coach. He inhaled rapidly, he couldn’t breathe, MOTHER OF GOD HE COULDN’T BREATHE. He looked back down at his hands, fingernail marks were visible. He had dug his fingers into the bottom of his palms until they bled. _Thank God._

“GREENBERG!” He whipped his head towards the front seeing Coach standing there, one hand on his whistle, the other placed firmly on his desk. “Just what in the hell do you think you’re doing?” Greenberg sat there for a second trying to catch his breath and after several failed attempts he had managed to break into a coughing fit that somehow had enabled the sweet nectar of oxygen to enter his lungs. Coach had moved to the side of his desk and stood there perplexed for a moment before yelling “GREENBERG!”

Greenberg stood up shakily, and silently started picking up the papers and pens that had fallen to the floor. He reached for some of the papers that had managed to venture down the aisle. Jackson ripped them off the ground and analyzed them enthusiastically. He looked at Greenberg then back at the papers multiple times. “I was unaware you were such a poet” He said softly before handing them back. _Great._

“Are you done interrupting this class Greenberg?” Coach asked impatiently. Greenberg looked up at him, smirking slightly. “Probably not” Greenberg muttered while getting back in his chair. This proved to be more difficult than it should have been considering his legs were almost too long for the cramped area. Coach stood there a second, contemplating whether he should reply to his remark or not. He turned back to his lesson and started rattling off whatever nonsense he deemed suitable for Economics.

Greenberg ran a hand through his hair and tried wiping Jackson’s mud from his papers. It was useless. He felt something tickling his right shoulder and looked to see a dark stain seeping through his light grey hoodie. He rolled his sleeve up gently, feeling his breathing beginning to hitch again. Had that thing actually bitten him? Was it here? He rolled his sleeve up until he saw the puncture marks. He was breathing fast now, hell, he might have even been on the verge of hyperventilating. It took him a second to remember it was from yesterday when Brett had pushed him into the rake that hung dangerously on the shed out back. He grinned faintly; from a distance it almost looked like bite marks.

Greenberg slid his sleeve back down gently, letting the blood drip down his arm. Class ended in 10 minutes, he’d take care of it then. At least there was a clean hoodie in his locker. He smeared the blood off his hands and settled further down in his chair. He steadied his breathing. He wasn’t a monster… was he? He felt Stiles tapping his shoulder and tried his best to ignore it. The tapping continued until Greenberg turn around slightly, “Dude, are you okay?” Greenberg stared at him for a second before Stiles made a gesture towards his shoulder then systematically made a panic noise that was supposed to resemble what had just happened. Stiles raised an eyebrow and looked over at Scott who had leaned in to hear his response. Both of them were staring at him awkwardly. Wonderful, he was being outed as the freak. Greenberg nodded his head gently before turning back towards the lecture… but deep down… he had no fucking idea.

……………………………………………………………………………………..

He sat there; pressing his palms into his knees and watching the chaos unfold on the field. They were at a lacrosse match, playing against some shitty team from some shitty school. And they were losing, mainly because Coach hadn’t decided to put Jackson or Scott on the field. Which, all-in-all, was a terrible idea. Jackson had been benched due to a neck injury he had “mysteriously” acquired yesterday and Scott due to some stupid academic probation or something. This meant they were down two of their best players, and he anxiously waited to be put in even though it could mean he’d be expelled. He knew Coach would take the hit if it meant winning the game. He flexed his fingers and took a deep breath. He could hear the crowd chanting and Coach yelling at Stilinski or Bilinski as he called him, for almost scoring in the wrong net. Stiles was a mediocre player, not the worst but not the greatest. He was severely ADHD and this meant that more than half the time he wasn’t paying attention, at least in school. More than likely the only reason he was still on the team was because of Scott… who had somehow managed to become an expert in lacrosse over the summer.

He closed his eyes and drowned out the threats spewing from the Coach’s mouth, and focused on the crowd. He could hear words of encouragement from some parents and students. None of them were there for him, not that he’d expect them to be. Hell even Isaac’s abusive father had managed to show up somehow. He listened to the roar from the other team’s fellow supporters, and the noise of the horn going off signaling halftime. He could feel the bench shake as players raced to it, looking for a place of safety in a brutal game. He hated losing, not as much as Jackson or the Coach but he hated losing when he could do so much better.

He took a deep breath. He wished his mom was here but she would never come. She was never around when he needed her and that sucked. He felt dread in the pit of his stomach as he realized the game was almost over. After the game he’d have to go back. He didn’t want to go back. He didn’t want to go there. But he would have to. Back to that house. Back to him. Alone. He felt his fists clench together and anger bubbling beneath his chest.

“GREENBERG!”

He jumped and opened his eyes, realizing everyone was looking at him. Had he said something out loud? He ran a hand through his messy black hair, “Yes, Coach?”

Coach crossed his arms and huffed, “Now I’m not sure why your off in lala land daydreaming but in case you haven’t noticed we’re playing a game here and LOSING! I’m putting you in and so help me God, if you don’t get up and win this game, I’ll make you wash the whole team’s uniforms for a week!”

He eyed the Coach, feeling the backwash of a sarcastic comment itching in the back of his throat, begging desperately to escape. He nodded and yanked his helmet from Stilinski’s head, who in turn offered an annoyed look and exaggerated “Ow!” He turned back around, feeling slightly sorry for the guy, who wanted to play so badly, especially with his father watching.

“Don’t worry Stiles, you’ll get your chance. I promise.” He said gently.

The Coach clapped his hands together as Greenberg put on his helmet, “Okay everybody knows what to do, right? Now get out there and win me- I mean us- win us that game!” He smacked the back of Greenberg’s shoulder hard and eyed the rest of the team.

Greenberg rolled his eyes as he ran onto the field. God the Coach could be such a jerk sometimes. He ignored the shouts and screams coming from the crowd and menacing insults coming from Jackson on the sideline. He turned to face the benches, looking over the faces slowly, looking for someone familiar, someone he could focus on and “win” the game for. _Lydia? No. Allison? No she was taken. Alec? Hell no, that relationship ended months ago. Erica? Maybe._

He heard the whistle go off and scanned the sea of faces again, listening to the game begin. _Lydia. Allison. Alec. Eri- Brett._ He froze. He could hear the game around him, the people screaming, and the players moving. He felt the world around him fade, and focused on nothing but Brett. There was no game. There was no crowd. There was no field. Only. Fucking. Brett. Brett stood there wearing a nice purple button down Greenberg’s mom had picked out and a smile that made him look like your stereotypically proud father. _Pathetic._ He shuttered slightly at the idea of Brett acting parental. It was more than disturbing. He tried his best to direct his attention back towards the game but he couldn’t. Brett had noticed him and had begun to wave gently. He gave Greenberg a devilish smirk and shoved his hands in his pockets. Greenberg shuttered again. He could faintly hear Coach yelling his name as the game continued.

“Greenberg!”

“Greenberg!”

“GREENBERG! GET YOUR HEAD IN THE FREAKING GAME!”

Greenberg shook his head and pried his attention from Brett to the player coming towards him. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. The world around him moved at an ungodly sluggish pace, including himself. He couldn’t breathe; he couldn’t focus; his mind still reeled from the endless questions that rambled through his brain. Brett had never once been to a game, hell Greenberg had become convinced that he hadn’t even known where the school was. He shook his head again raking through the muddled mess that was his mind, trying to come up with a logical explanation. Why in the hell was he seeing Brett everywhere? Was he going mad? What- He didn’t get to finish his thought.

……………………………………………………………………………………………

_“Dad! Daddy! Come back! Don’t leave me!” Greenberg looked to his left to see a 6-year-old boy kneeling in the dirt; hands and knees covered in dust and scrapes from where he had landed. The kid was crying; tears streaming down his face and landing on the ground below. “Daddy! I’m sorry. Come back!” he yelled over and over again. Clouds had started to draw overhead and rain was beginning to come down. The kid straightened his posture slightly, sitting on the ground and wiping his eyes with his muddy hands. He looked like he had been out here for hours. Greenberg ran his hand through his hair and closed his eyes._

_He knew this memory well. It had been the day his father left. He remembered hearing his parents fighting in the kitchen then something being thrown. His father stomping out of the house and Greenberg running after him, begging his father to take him too. He watched as the taxi drove away, and he remembered running after it until he couldn’t run anymore. He sat in the road for hours yelling for his dad and apologizing over and over again until his voice cracked and it hurt to talk. He begged for his father to come back but he never did._

_“Samuel! So help me if you don’t get in this house this instant I will make you wish you had!” someone yelled from the porch steps. Greenberg didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. His mother. His mother, standing there in a bright purple dress with pink paint splotches covering it, and some other guy’s jacket._

_Greenberg opened his eyes; it was dark now, the streets illuminating light from the posts above. The kid stood up, wiping snot and tears on his shirt and headed towards the house. He stopped in front of Greenberg and looked up. Tearstains were visible on his muddy face. “It’s your fault he left, and it always will be” the 6-year-old spat sharply. The kid stared at Greenberg, hate and disgust imprinted on his little face. Greenberg stood there, trying to find the right words to say but, he couldn’t. The kid shook his head, tears welling in his eyes again and headed back into the house slowly._

_Greenberg stood there for a second mulling over what just happened. He sighed deeply and looked back at the house door. It was green, unpleasant and splintered, along with the rest of the house. It had been the last house Greenberg had lived in since they moved; the last house Greenberg had been happy in. He ran another hand through his hair and sighed again. It didn’t really matter how many parents or therapists told him that his parent’s divorce wasn’t his fault, because like most kids of divorce, he felt like it was._

………………………………………………………………………………………………

He heard whispers, or maybe it was voices; really, really soft voices. He tried to open his eyes, but couldn’t. Everything around him felt like it was spinning and he felt a weight on his chest like someone was sitting on top of him. He inhaled and groaned slightly realizing breathing hurt. Where was he? What happened? He moved his fingers slowly feeling for something familiar. He was laying on something wet and squishy; and it took him a second to realize it was dirt; dirt and grass and mud. He blinked a couple of times before opening his eyes fully to a hellishly bright world. Shapes moved in his vision blocking the light above him but he couldn’t make out what it was. He closed his eyes quickly as the world began to spin. He coughed, inhaling shakily. Something slapped his face and he opened his eyes once again to the same spinning hell.

He looked to his right seeing disoriented doubles of someone and he blinked a couple of times trying to clear his mind. Everything was hazy and unclear. He felt someone grab his right shoulder, pressing their fingers into the puncture marks. Pain lit up his side, and then all of a sudden things became clear. He was lying on the ground; he was lying on the ground during a game; he must have gotten hit. Greenberg could faintly hear Coach yelling “foul” like an insane person, over and over again. His mind was fuzzy. Everything was fuzzy and bright, and it seemed like the voices he heard around him were underwater or far away. He sat up slowly, mentally checking his body to make sure nothing was broken. He closed his eyes for a second; everything was too bright and off-kilter. Pain lit up his side again and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“Dude, are you okay?” He heard McCall ask. His voice was muffled and hard to hear. Greenberg opened his eyes and looked at Scott, worry and concern was written on his face and Greenberg couldn’t help but feel guilty. How long was he out? He shook his head and reached for his helmet, but it wasn’t there. He looked around panicked. Where the fuck was his helmet? Stilinski would need it to play; he didn’t want that weird awkward kid getting hurt. He glanced around seeing it laying a few feet away; he must have gotten hit hard. Greenberg shook his head again. God, everything was blurry. He felt someone shake him and directed his attention back towards McCall, “Dude, are you okay?”

Greenberg took a deep breath and nodded gently. Everyone and their mother seemed to be asking how he was doing today, and honestly Greenberg wasn’t sure. Someone pulled him to his feet and it took a second for his world to readjust. He felt his knees buckle and stumbled slightly; someone grabbed his arm, catching him before he met the earth twice in one night. He looked over to see it was McCall. He was a good kid; it was a shame about his dad. Greenberg froze. Brett; Brett was here. Where the hell was Brett? He glanced over at the bleachers, scanning through the crowd again. _Lydia. Allison. Alec. Derek. Boyd. Ms. McCall… but no Brett. Great._ He was just going fucking insane. He shook his head again and pushed himself away from McCall. Scott stopped for a second turning towards Greenberg in shock and confusion before nodding and running back towards the goal. He knew Greenberg could hold his own; he wasn’t weak.

Greenberg stood there in the middle of the field under the unbearably harsh lights. He hated these lights; they made things seem fake and played tricks with your mind. Greenberg was pretty sure he saw Scott’s eyes turn gold one time and it took him a second to write it off as the fluorescent lighting. He stood there stretching slightly before grabbing his left side and steading himself. God that hurt! Pain encased his ribs and Greenberg cursed loudly; he let go after a few seconds and bent down to pick up his helmet. He was pretty sure if he had stretched all the way he would have passed out, but he had to know what he was dealing with. He was pretty sure one of his left ribs was broken again. _Perfect._

He cleared his throat and looked over to see Coach standing on the sideline, whistle hanging loosely from his mouth. His hair was a mess, like always, and he had his arms crossed furiously. Greenberg smirked slightly, he could see the agitation written on Coach’s face and assumed he had gotten a lecture and a few forfeit threats from the ref. More than likely the whole team was going to have one hell of a practice tomorrow for something that Coach had done. Coach Finstock pointed at Greenberg and gave him a small nod. Greenberg looked up at the sky feeling raindrops beginning to fall. He closed his eyes. _You can do this Greenberg. You got this. So what, you got hit. Big deal. Brett hits you all the time. You got this._ He opened his eyes and looked back towards the Coach and nodded. He was going to be okay. He always was. He put his helmet back on and waited for the game to resume.

…………………………………………………………………………………….

Greenberg stood there, staring at the locker in front of him trying to decide if he really needed the Biology book on the top shelf. It was more than reachable considering he was almost as tall as the locker, but the slight throb in his side was warning him not to overdo it. He shook his head gently and closed the door, deciding he would take Mr. Harris’s lecture instead. He sat down on the bench in front of him and pressed his back against the locker. Everything around him was still off-kilter and bright, and he wondered if he had a concussion. His head hurt, but it wasn’t unbearable. And as long as he didn’t stretch too much, the pain in his side was manageable. But he could deal with the pain; he could always deal with it. No matter what. He pulled out his headphones and pushed play on his iPod, listening to some shitty rendition of Mozart’s 7th symphony by some shitty amateur.

The locker room was empty by now. Most of the team had left straight after the game, hanging their heads low, and waiting for the lecture guaranteed tomorrow. They had lost, but not by much. For many, this was a defeat in itself. The season was almost over and so far it hadn’t been an exceptional one. Greenberg grabbed his grey shirt that had fallen to the floor earlier. He looked down at his chest seeing purple and green coating the outside of his ribs. He touched it gently, cursing faintly when he pushed against his side. Yeah, definitely broken; he would have to be careful. He pulled his shirt on slowly and grabbed his bag.

The air was brisk and wet. Something he hadn’t expected when he stepped outside. The rain had stopped from earlier and instead gathered silently in puddles on the ground. Greenberg looked around. A majority of the parking lot was empty which wasn’t surprising considering it was close to 2am. He had been in the locker room for almost two hours, showering, finishing his Calculus homework, and dodging the inevitable question of whether or not he was okay. He shifted his bag to his right side; skipped the song on his iPod and started his journey home. He put his hands in his pockets and started humming the rhythm to whatever song he was listening to. Lights flickered behind him and he looked over his shoulder to see a car slowly pulling up beside him. It was the Coach. Great, just what he needed.

“I see you’re still here.” Coach said sarcastically, rolling his window down.

Greenberg stopped, “I see you’re still an observant dick. Case closed Sherlock.” He said putting his headphones back in and turning the volume up. He pulled his hoodie over his head and continued walking. He really didn’t need this right now. He could hear the Coach yelling at him but tried his best to ignore him. A car horn echoed through the trees around him and Greenberg turned back towards the car, yanking his headphones out of his ears. “What?” he yelled.

Coach stopped; he looked surprised and shook his head slightly, “Where’s your bike?”

Greenberg shrugged. Brett was currently playing hide-and-go seek with his keys and Greenberg hadn’t been able to find them for the last few days. This in turn meant he was either reduced to walking, or catching a ride from Stilinski- neither of which he minded. He shivered slightly feeling the temperature drop and pulled his hoodie closer, trying to keep warm.

“Can I give you a ride?” Coach asked cautiously.

Greenberg shook his head, walking slowly beside the car, reaching for his headphones, “You can’t give me anything.”

He started putting his headphones back in when Coach honked again, “Greenberg! I’m trying to help you out here. Now look, it’s getting cold out and I need you in Economics tomorrow for the test. So either spend a good half hour freezing your ass off out here or, get in the damn car.” Greenberg sighed and glanced down at his watch. It was nearing 2:30am now and his headache was beginning to aggravate him. He shoved his iPod back in his bag and got in the car.

Coach Finstock watched as Greenberg put on his seatbelt gingerly. Greenberg held back a wince as he threw his backpack in the backseat and leaned his head against the cold window.

“You sure you didn’t break anything? Maybe you should let me ch-”

“I’m fine.” Greenberg cut him off. He glanced over at the Coach and then back out the window. He didn’t really want to talk about it. None of it. That’s not what they did, ever. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the old rattling of the car. He had only been in here once before and last time he remembered it smelled vaguely of pizza and cheap alcohol; that smell was gone now and instead replaced with the smell of stale cologne and musty papers. In a way it was comforting. He pressed his face harder against the window feeling throbbing near his eye; it was the black eye Brett had given him yesterday evening when Greenberg had dropped a glass on the floor. He sighed quietly. He wasn’t really scared of Brett, just annoyed.

“I don’t remember you having a black eye yesterday.” Coach said after a few minutes of awkward silence, “You had one a few weeks ago, but I don’t remember seeing one yesterday.”

Greenberg shifted in his seat, pressing his legs against the dash, “Then maybe you weren’t looking hard enough.” He retorted. He shifted again. _Damn, your car is too small_.

“Well I’m sorry my car’s too small for your liking.” Coach articulated sarcastically. He threw his blinker on and turned right. Greenberg opened his eyes and looked over at him. Had he said that out loud? He shook his head again and leaned it back on the window, closing his eyes. God he was tired. All he wanted to do was sleep.

“There’s going to be one hell of a meeting tomorrow regarding tonight because I am not losing another game this season.”  
_Oh good, we’ll just wait until next season to lose again. Let me just inform the team we have your approval to start winning._

Coach cleared his throat, “Don’t expect me to go easy on you either.”  
_No, we wouldn’t want that. God forbid we go a freaking day without someone on the team getting hurt, crying or puking._

Silence had begun to fill the tiny space and after a few minutes, Greenberg could feel himself beginning to drift. Sleep had never sounded so good. God he was tired. All he wanted to do was sleep- wait, hadn’t he already-

“The test is going to be hard tomorrow, you know. I thought this would be a fair exchange for the shit game you guys played tonight.”  
_I’d expect nothing less and yet I will still be disappointed I’m sure._

Coach messed with the radio, flipping through different stations before turning it off. He drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel and looked over at Greenberg. He looked like he was asleep. His face pressed against the window and his body resting at a weirdly awkward angle. A faint bruise outlined his left eye and a small cut was visible on his top lip. His unkempt hair was shielding most of his forehead and stuck up messily in a few places. He needed a haircut. Coach glanced at the road quickly before turning back towards the kid. Even with his eyes closed, he still looked lost. Not helpless, but lost. Like the light in his eyes had gone out years ago and instead had been replaced with some meaningless void that couldn’t be filled; a void that continued to search for something he couldn’t find.

He glanced at Greenberg’s knuckles to see faint outlines of previous fights. The kid shifted again, pulling his right sleeve up slightly revealing pale skin, and some scars Finstock was dreading. They were about a year old, about the time Greenberg had started high school; Brett had told him he had been going through a tough time and thought it would be better if Greenberg switched schools. That’s how he ended up here. The jagged dark lines were visible whenever Greenberg wore a short sleeve shirt or took his jacket off; reminding him and everyone else of what Greenberg had tried to do. Finstock cleared his throat again and turned back towards the road as the light turned green. “So… how’s Brett?” he asked after passing a few more streets.

_The less fortunate Wahlberg brother? Fantastic, can’t you tell._

“Less fortunate Wahlberg brother” Coach chuckled slightly turning left.

Greenberg forced his eyes open. Had he fucking said that out loud? What else had he said out loud? He swallowed loudly feeling his heart speeding up. What else had he said? He didn’t remember talking out loud. He looked back over at the Coach again then sat up quickly, panicked curiosity coursing through his body. He winced loudly and hunched over in his seat; he had forgotten briefly about his side. “Fuck!” He gasped harshly, grasping the dashboard with his left hand while his right continued to hold his side. Stop being such a baby; you’ve had worse. Stop being a baby. It took him a second to realize there was a hand on his shoulder and he turned to see Coach had stopped the car.

“Hey kid, you sure you’re okay?” Coach asked. Concern and worry showed on his face. Greenberg let go of the dash and his side; he felt guilty. He wasn’t that hurt, just a couple of broken ribs, nothing he hasn’t had before. _Then why are you being such a baby?_ He breathed deeply and nodded. He just needed to focus on his breathing and remember to move slower than usual. He looked back at the Coach who was still staring at him, eyebrow arched. “Greenberg, you know you can tell me if something’s wrong, right?”

Greenberg looked out the window realizing they were already at his house. The light was on at the porch and Greenberg shuddered at the thought of going inside. He turned back once again towards the Coach. He couldn’t tell him anything. He couldn’t tell him he was hurt. He couldn’t tell him that every night he had to go home to sadistic Wreck-it Ralph. He couldn’t tell him he might be losing his freaking mind… they weren’t that close. And they would never be.

“Noted,” he said bitterly. He reached for his backpack ignoring the burning in his side and opened the door. Coach grabbed his arm, “Greenberg. I mean it. You can tell me anything. You don’t always have to leave.”

The teenager stood there for a second mulling over how this conversation would go. The wind picked up around him and he shivered, pulling his hands past his sleeves, “Of course not. I’m not you” he said, slamming the door shut.

He started walking towards the house. Part of him wanted to turn around to see Coach’s reaction, wanting to know exactly how that comment struck him, while the other part wanted to apologize. He heard the car click into gear and the tires rolling against the wet road as it drove away. Greenberg sighed. His mind was still fuzzy and everything around him still shined with off-kilter vibrancy. He opened the door and stepped inside kicking his muddy sneakers off and walked towards the stairs.

“How was the game?” someone asked and Greenberg jumped; he had expected the house to be sleeping. He turned seeing Brett leaning against the wall. He was wiping one of the dish plates off with an old yellow hand towel. Greenberg groaned, “God Brett, look, I’m not in the mood to do this right now, so what do you want?”

Brett stopped wiping and stared at him for a second before placing the rag on his shoulder. He sighed. “I asked how the game was” he repeated. He set the plate down on top of a stack of books and crossed his arms. Greenberg felt his headache spreading down his neck. All he wanted to do was go to sleep and forget about this whole damn day. He dropped his backpack at the bottom of the stairs and cleared his throat, “It was fine Brett. They won, we lost. Yeah we suck; I suck- blah, blah, blah. Can I go to sleep now?” Agitation was beginning to creep in his voice and he bit back a sarcastic comment. He started walking up the stairs slowly, keeping Brett in his vision.

“Yeah sure. Get some rest kiddo.” Brett said. Greenberg shuttered. Brett was never this nice. Ever. The teenager made it to the top of the stairs before Brett called again, “Oh! One more thing, that guy hit you pretty fucking hard tonight, so watch yourself; it would be a shame to get another concussion so soon. After all, we wouldn’t want to stop having fun now, would we?”

Greenberg closed his door slowly and collapsed on his bed. He sighed loudly, letting the warmth and comfort of his blue bedsheets envelop his aching body. He peered at the tiny red numbers on his clock, 3:00am; he had exactly 3 hours before he had to be up. Perfect. He twisted his shirt off awkwardly and gently rolled onto his back. He would bandage his side tomorrow before school and down some Tylenol for his head. He felt himself drifting off and closed his eyes, replaying the game over and over again in his mind. Everything was still unclear. But out of all of it, one thing he was certain about, Brett had fucking been there.


End file.
